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Topic: [Earth] Hallowed Be Thy Name (Read 6232 times)

I'm waiting in my cold cell, when the bell begins to chime. Reflecting on my past life and it doesn't have much time. Because at five o'clock they take me to the gallows pole. The sands of time for me are running low...

Steven Rairke was once a man of the law. He fought for what he believed in, went to church every sunday, had never broken a law in his entire life. When people saw him walk by, they nodded their heads and whispered to one another, no one could ever come up with a single bad thing to say about the man. For 7 years, he has been their protector, their defense against the harsh reality of the world which they share with him. For seven years there hasn't been so much as a robbery in the town of Acacia. For seven years, his secret has been hidden under a cruel facade that keeps that which is in his soul under wraps. For seven years, he has been a free man.

Seven never was his lucky number. For they have come for him, come for him from every walk of life, social class, and for every reason imaginable. Its not every day that one man's head can net you a cool half million dollars. Especially considering that its 1877. That's the price on his head, displayed prominantly in every post office in the country, from the courthouses of Birmingham to the old Spanish Missions of San Jose; from the everglades to the cool waters of the Great Lakes. It seems that the only place that Steven Rairke isn't known is Acacia. But that's all about to change. The Gallows are not so forgiving to those who escape their braided hemp grasp.

----

By now you're probably wondering to yourself just what in the hell Steven Rairke did to have a price on his head that big in the late 19th Century. Well, I'm not about to tell you. Rest Assured that is the best kept secret in the entire country as of that time. Admitting the truth of what he did, the very knowledge of his crime itself is an issue of National Security. The rumors are many, but only God, The President, and Steven Rairke know the truth. Well, I guess I do too, but I'm not exactly there, now am I?

This Rp takes place in the American West, only its not exactly the American West we all know and love from the John Wayne movies, its a little different. Technology, fashion, transportation, and architecture are all exactly as one might expect in the old west, complete with cowboy hats, six shooters, and swinging door saloons. The difference instead lies in the people themselves. Humanity is far different from the forms it takes here in our world. Why and how the change occurred is a mystery, all that people really know is that it had something to do with an artifact uncovered in an Aztec ruin by an American scientist in 1839. Since the date of that discovery, men and women started to exhibit amazing abilities. No longer could people be judged by the way they looked, spoke, or acted. You never did know what kind of person you were looking at when you stared down the street.

The players in this RP will be coming to Acacia in search of the Half Million Dollar Man, Steven Rairke. You don't know why he is worth that much, or what the crime was that he committed to be sentenced to death.

Therein lies the fun. Several foreign powers have become very interested in the man. Now that the people of North America have begun to exhibit strange, new abilities, all of them are seeking a way to gain an advantage over the new Super Power. The United States has no Political Allies at this point in time, though everyone wants to be their ally, thus any spies would be denied if discovered and would have to hide their affiliation. Of course, that is generally the idea behind spies, now isnt' it?

Now then, on to the fun part: The abilities.

There are five different kinds of people in the world:

Base: These are the unchanged, those who did not experience any new gifts after 1839 (you didn't have to be born then to eperience them, some who were Base then gave birth to children who were not, though any who are not base have to have been born in North America) are known as the base. Almost all international agents would fit into this category, though a few may have been born on the North American Continent, and thus not be this. The base are just like you and me.

Psi: The Psi are quite how you would imagine them, they can read thoughts, communicate telepathically, and do slight feets of a telekinetic nature. No stopping bullets or flying here, more subtle things, flipping a switch, bringing a light object to your hand from a table. The more powerful your telekinetic abilities, the weaker your telepathy and mind reading are. The strongest telekinetics can grab a gun from an enemy's hand, but very few have that level of skill.

Animus: The Animi (plural of Animus) are those people who can channel energy. They are called this because it is believed that the energy they seem to create is a physical manifestation of their souls. Thus many people believe that the Animi have made deals with the devil. Animi are the rarest of the five types, and are generally considered the most powerful. On average, they can generate a large burst of energy (if concentrated, into a basketball sized blast) once every two hours (a maximum of ten times a day if used in quick succesion, though they will not be able to use their abilities the next day if it is used more than three times in a row without the proper cumulative wait time ((6 hours for three times)). Abuse of the power (using it 11 or more times) can very well be fatal, adding fuel to the soul energy theory).

Pyro: The Pyros are those who can control fire in all of its forms, Able to make it bend and dance to their will or grow beyond its natural bounds. Of course, they can not create fire, thus the fire goes out when it runs out of fuel. If they make the fire too big for its means, the fuel will burn out very quickly indeed. The biggest weakness of a Pyro is that they tend to control fire in their sleep as well, some times causing a candle flame left on to leap out to them and kill themselves accidentally. Pyros are very careful about that sort of thing (if they know what they are), their lives depends on it.

Healers: This one is pretty self explanatory. Healers are capable of mending torn flesh and dispatching diseases. Of course, like all the others, their abilities are limited, they are only able to bring about the healing energy 8 times a day without sapping their own strength, though each time is only enough to close a medium cut. Thus healing a bullet wound to any vital area (excluding killer blows to the heart or head) will most likely take all of their powers for the day.

I'll post my character later tonight or tomorrow. All chars should follow the following format:

Description: John stands at a height of 6'3" tall, and weighs in at about 210 pounds. His body has a medium build, lean but not too well taken of. His black hair is worn short and almost always under a dark brown cowboy hat that casts a shadow over his grizzled, stubbled face. His left eye has a scar that runs from just above and to the left of it all the way through to just below and to the right of the eye. This scar, gained in a bar fight, is one of the reasons for his nickname. Like the Norse god Odin, his eye seems to be destroyed, and yet through the aid of a healer he can still see through the broken organ. His remaining eye is brown in color.

On his torso is worn three garments. The first is a tan colored shirt made of cloth, its almost always slightly dirty from the road. Over that is worn a vest that is brown in color and usually buttonned up. Over that is worn a long coat that is dark brown in color. The coat reaches to his ankles when he is standing up. He also wears a pair of slacks matching the coat in both their color and the cloth from which they are made. He also is usually seen wearing leather riding chaps over these, though he sometimes is without these. He also has a pair of black leather boots with twin spurs on either side.

Equipment:

John wears a gunbelt complete with two revolvers (a Colt Peace maker and a Single Action Army) and a rifle (an 1873 Winchester Repeating Rifle, 15 catrtirdge cocking rifle) in his coat. He also usually has rope, a large Bowie Knife, and a pair of brown leather gloves made to perfectly fit his hands without slowing his draw time.

Brief History:

John "The Raven" Cooper was born in 1845, the son of a Barrel Maker and his wife. His childhood was rather standard and not too much of note occurred until a few months into his 17th year. It was then that he found himself working as a student to Marshall William Targus, a lawman of exceptional calibur who was said to be able to hunt down any man, beast, or child with nothing more than a two week old trail and a pipe to guide him. For five years the deputized Cooper followed the lawman and brought many a criminal to justice as he came to grips with his own mysterious abilities. He quickly became quite aquainted with gunmanship and became quite the shot with both revolver and rifle. From Targus he learned the better part of honor, valor, and tracking. With the untimely death of the old lawman, Cooper was thrust out on his own.

The man who killed Targus was captured and aquitted, thus disheartening the young deputy. The law had always worked with him, but the New Yorker who had shot his friend and teacher with a rifle from afar had gotten off scott free. Cooper, as one might imagine was furious. If the law would not serve those who purveyed it, then what purpose had it? Rather than taking the law into his own hands, Cooper instead became a bounty hunter, making money by sticking it to the lawmen who couldn't catch the varied and skilled criminals of the west. It was to his delight, however, when a city man hired him to kill the murderer of his mentor.

It is thus that he is after Steven Rairke. On one hand the government will pay half a million dollars for Rairke's head, dead or alive. On the other, half of the governments in the world would sell their very souls to get a hold of the man or what it is he knows that threatens the United States and its powerful populace. Either way, The Raven stands to make a substantial payday...

William McCandless was born to an Scottish immigrant family in the Appalachian Mountains. He was, as his father and mother, and the rest of his family, a devout Christian, and a devoted farmer.Then the Change happened.One morning, William awoke to find his home in flames, and a crown of fire floating above his head.He ran into the wilderness, unscathed by the fires of his own creation, and never returned. Instead, he headed west, following the newly constructed railroads, to miners in the new Gold Rush.He worked for about 3 years, he worked as a cart-boy in the Brenson Mine near Salt Lake City, but he found himself on the run after being accused of burning the mine down.He gradually learned better control of his flame powers, and traveled through the California coast, San Francisco, Los Angeles, and other dusty towns, looking for work.He, as many had before, turned to a life of crime, holding up banks and pulling of train robberies with his Pyrokinetic powers.When things got to hot in California, William drifted north and east to Idaho, then south.About three days ago, William leaped off of a train into the wilderness outside of the small town of Acacia.

William McCandless is a tall, bone-and-gristle, gangly section of humanity. He has a large nose, set poorly after being broken in some long ago fight. He has a two-day growth of beard and is slightly sunburned after having walked for three days to reach Acacia. He wears an outfit not uncommon for a mine worker, though he tops this with a cowboy hat that he stole in a mining town in the Rockies. He carries a shotgun in the crook of his arm and a sack of possessions on his back. He has heard that the famous Half-Million-Dollar Man is in Acacia...

Description: John is five foot eleven. John has sandy blonde hair and dark blue eyes, an angular face face and square chin. Johns wheres a flanel shirt, jeans with riding riding chaps, boots with spurs. His horse, Shadow, is a black mustang and one of the fastest in the whole west. He also wheres a black hat that usualy tiped low to hide his face, and wheres a red hangkerchif tied around his neck. He carries an old Colt six shooter and a bandolier of ammo.

History: John was an orphan from a small frontier town in Arizona, he grew up with an old woman named Ann Rodgers, a loan woman who was riding one day and found him out in the wilderness all by himself. She always referred to him as her little gift from God, John grew up with Anna she took care of him and showed him how to ride and shoot. She was a truw western woman that had been one of the first to move west. She deemed riding and shooting to be most important skillz in the wild west and saw to it that he could shoot and ride better than anyone else in town. At age fourteen Ann died, John had no where to go and was soon shunned out of town, he was always resented for being 'just found' and many people believed he was the basterd child of Ann, which wasn't true at all.

Being run out of town had always been rather hard on John he soon turned to crime, a year ago he demonstrated an unatural talent at safe cracking the locks seemed to whirl and unlock themselves all on his own. John is wanted for some of the fastest robberies, his riding skills and safe cracking abilites has aloud him to rob a string of banks each in under a a few minutes.

Personality: John is a quiet fellow and doesn't like attention (two guesses why ) John doesn't try to stand out too much and can be found usually in a tavern putting away some of his loot in drink.

Reason for coming: On the run and neede somewhere to stash his money, he just rode in on horse back...

Marie is a tall, black haired woman, and it's fairly obvious she's got some Indian blood (specifically Cherokee) in her. She's also fairly thin and wiry. Her features are of the angular type often found in Indians, but her eyes are bright blue. She also has a fairly dark skin tone, another part of her Cherokee heritage. She usually dresses in clothing that is often thought more suitable for a man: a pair of sturdy gray trousers (that had actually been lifted from a calvary man's uniform), a perpetually dusty white shirt, a brown leather duster, boots, and a very beat up-looking cowboy hat. Her shoulder-length black hair is usually left loose. She always wears a choker made of carved beads with a few charms and feathers attatched to it. She carries a six-shooter, a Winchester rifle, a derringer tucked away out of sight, and a wicked looking bowie knife.

Marie is the daughter of a Frenchman, a professional gambler, who had married a Cherokee. She was actually born on a steamboat. Her mother died when she was a baby, leaving just her and her father, and so she was raised as a European. She quickly discovered her talent, which was, believe me, a useful thing to have if you're a gambler. That was probably the only reason her father didn't die sooner than he did. He taught her how to play poker at a young age, and she is actually better at it than he was. Of course, inevitably, one night he got shot in a drunken brawl, and she wasn't close enough by to take care of him. After his funeral, Marie left the Mississippi gambling circuit, having found it not worth the hassle of getting into games. People tended to object because she was A. a girl, and B. an Indian. She tentatively approached her mother's tribe, and they took her in for a little time, being very glad of her gift (even if she was half white). But she couldn't readily adapt to their way of life, and it always upset them when she did things her own way. So she left, and came out West. She has since discovered that the only way for a half-breed girl to get any semblance of respect is with a gun, and so she's made it her business to become very good. She sometimes makes a living gambling when there's a game that'll have her, or bounty hunting when the authorities will pay her. That's what brought her to Acacia. She's getting tired of having to buy respect with a bullet, and figures if she gets this bounty, she'll be set for life. And the money would be nice, too. If she brings down Steven Rairke, she'll have a blank ticket for the future.

William McCandless spits voluminously into the brush and then snaps his head tersely forward.As he walks along he whistles a tune. Then he sings it."Gonna' git' me an outlaw;Gonna' git' 'im good;Gonna' git' 'im in the heart;Ah'll shoot 'im where 'e stood;Gonna' git' me an outlaw."He stops, spits again, adjusts his hat, and keeps on walking, pacing with a steady stride as the sun beat down and down.Suddenly, he stops, stiffens, bows his head."Dear Lord, please grant me the luck to take down the Half-Millyun'-Dollar Man, an' I promise ya' I won't do no more sins."He slouched again, raised his eyes to the horizon.He began to whistle again, and walked.

OOC:Now, for a little backround on the town of Acacia. Acacia is a medium sized western town on the Arizona/New Mexico boarder. The town is technically in New Mexico, though neither state really notices it. For the most part, the town is self sufficient. There are two rivers in the area (one little more than a stream, the other branches off of a lake some fifty miles north of town), plenty of livestock and cowboys in the surrounding territories, and a completely self governing local body in the town. For all intents and purposes, the town is little more than a city state. Most, if not all, of the residents have lived there from bitrth, thus little to no correspondance or travel leaves the fifty mile radius around the town. Drifters do come in from time to time, but are less than normal in Acacia due to the lack of significant rail access. The nearest railroad is approximately 75 miles due west of the town, with the transcontinental railroad being closest at about 120 miles due south. The townsfolk are polite enough, but are very weary of strangers, especially those from back east or even from the midwest. The town has a wide variety of professions calling it home, thus little, if any, extra regional trade takes place. As you might have assumed, the best word for the town is REMOTE. I hope that helps give some light to the subject, as well as aids you when you write yourself into town. The easiest access is either a small river craft or a horse, though train to horse or train to river is possible, though the train stations are a bit far off.

~~~~~~~~~~

When the priest comes to read me the last rites I take a look through the bars at the last sights Of a world that has gone very wrong for me

Can it be there's some sort of error Hard to stop the surmounting terror Is it really the end not some crazy dream

"Aright, Les go." The man said, his grizzled face forming into a cruel grin, while the collared man behind him looked on with saddened eyes.

"My son, may God forgive you and have mercy on your soul."

"Thanks, Father," came his own voice, sounding as little more than the squeak of a mouce facing down a three hundred pound lion. "I'll need it."

Exitting the small metal enclosed cell, the three move down the hall towards a light down the long tunnel. Grumbles, groans, and whispers echo through the corridor from either side, some faces agrin, others aghast. Some thrust out their hands and make obscene gestures at the dying man, others bow their heads in solemn respect for the d**ned. All the while, the words of the short, collared man can be heard, spouting off holy passages. "... for the Lord is my shephard and I shall not want." The words should mean something. They should help to lighten the harsh levity of the situation, even if it is only a tiny shread of hope in the eyes of the condemned. But there is nothing, his heart does not stir, his lips remain held fast. He does not know why he feels nothing, but he knows that something is wrong."

"Amen." As if to bring to a close not only the prayer, but also the life of the man at his side, the priest closes his Bible audibly as the small group reaches the courtyard, the sun burning down upon the plains, making the small area uncomfortably warm. The scene is solemn, an executioner holding a noose, the warden on the ground several feet below the scafold of the gallows speaking with the governor of the territory. Soldiers stand off to the left, their eyes looking straight ahead as if to catch the coming darkness before it consumes the dying. To the right is a small group of people the man doesn't recognize, though a few of the guards are around them talking bruskly to one another.

An image flashes in his eyes, the courtyard bent into a mockery of its present self, the building dilapidated, blood everywhere, the bodies of the dead strewn about. But they are not just any dead, they are the people standing in the yard, their bodies torn into cruel mockeries of themselves, even the priest and soldiers lay dead and destroyed. The gallows pole is cracked and bent to the ground, and over it all flies a menacing black bird. The bird's loud "Caw!" dissipates the sight, as the man blinks and all is at it was. His feet reach the wood of the scafold, and he is forced up the stairs by the guard behind him. The priest lowers his eyes and looks away as the noose is tied around the man's neck.

A cruel smile plays across the face of both warden and governor as the executioner reaches for the lever of the trap door. As he reaches for it, the man breathes in and closes his eyes...

And wakes up. The feel of cold sweat comes over him all at once, the warmth of the woolen quilt working fiercely to overcome the slight autumn wind blowing through an open window. And there, on the sill is the black bird, a Raven. It stares into the now open eyes of the man in the bed, its glare piercing his very sanity. Then it is gone. Steven Rairke is once again all alone. He is safe in his little prison paradise he calls home. He does not know that very soon, Acacia will no longer be the perfect assylum. Darkness is coming across the plains, and the river rolls on with more at its back. Time is running out, and he hasn't the faintest clue. All Rairke has is his recurring nightmare, the image of the murdered spectators still harsh in his mind, the smell and feel of blood turning his stomach. A second cry from the raven floats in to the room and Rairke trembles again. Sleep will not find him again this night...

John rode into town on his horse Shadow with little notice from anyone in particular, he got off his horse and walked like any other normal person as he entered the saloon on the edge of town. The one thing odd was; John was carrying a sack nearly bursting but no one could tell what.

John walked up to the bartender and asked, "You have vacency?"

The fellow stayed quiet.

John pulled out a small wad of ten dollar bills, "Do you have vacenvy," he asked.

"Yes, yes!" The man said joyfully, "rooms are upstairs and to the left yours is number 12," he said handing a key to John.

John nodded in thanks and went upstairs he didn't trust the bartender for a second as soon as he was upstaris he switched out the locks on the doors and put the bad under his small bed. He then left and went outside, he tossed a few coins to a local boy, "Watch my horse, eh?"

"S're thing sir!" the young boy said excitedly.

John walked down the streets, his spurs clinking, it was pretty quiet this time of mornning till he remembered it was Sunday. Townsfolk would be at Church, he walked into a large brothel and one of chatted up one of the girls or two. He also ordered a few rounds of burben. It had been a long while since he'd been able to spend money freely...

The clerk had been having a decent morning. Not that there was such a thing as a terrible morning in a town like his. The sheriff kept all of the local troublemakers in line, and his store hadn't been robbed in the entire time Sheriff Rairke had been in town. As he played a soft cloth over his glasses (they seemed to fog up nearly all the time), a familiar face walked into the store. It was that of a boy who had come in earlier, obviously a bit dishevelled and had purchased a few things. The motto of the town of Acacia was to treat others as you yourself would like to be treated, so the clerk had even cut a deal with the young man, allowing him a few extra food stuffs. It would be no great loss to the clerk, who ran the only general store in town. When somebody needed something from outside of town, they would have to come to him. A few crackers weren't all that big of a deal.

"Hey," the boy began, "Do you know Steven Rairke?" His tone was polite enough, even if his question was ludicrous.

"Of course I do, my boy, everybody here knows him. You got business with him? You don't look like one of those thieving outlaw types."

The scarecrow shadow of William McCandless blanks the doorway of the shop. Dropping his shotgun and his sack on the doorstep, he paces in, rubbing a sunburned nose.The shopkeeper is talking to a disheveled boy, exhibiting a few tins and jars of food. Mollases, salt-crackers, pepper.I want some mollases, William thinks, and seizes a jar of the orange sludge from the shelf.He waits politely behind the boy as the shopkeeper converses with him.The words "Steven Rairke" draw his attention.

John after having a good time in the brothel left and walked down to a shop, his first impulse was to hold it up almost immediately but then he noticed a fellow with a shotgun. Not a good idea...

John walked from one end of the town the other. He finally went back to the hotel and went to his room he pulled out the large bag and started counting what he had left. On his third try he figured he had almost three thousand dollars. Grunting, that was only a small pull off for him. That local shop looked pretty inticing now...

Marie went downstairs, and examined her saddlebag. She'd need some stuff, and there was only one general store in town. She made her way over to it, and paused. There were a couple of fellows hanging around. She passed a kid around her age, give or take a year or two. She passed him, paying him no mind. Surely, the only shop in town would have peppermint sticks. Some people had their cigars and cigarettes, Marie had her peppermint sticks. As she was hunting for the stick candy, the name "Steven Rairke" drifted back from the front of the store. She froze, listening. This soon, and she already had a lead? That was good. But it also meant that others were already here looking for the bounty. That was bad.

The storekeep turned back to the boy, "I didn't mean nothin' by it, lad, its just that we don't get many visitors in this town, least of all visitors that got business with the Sheriff. I suppose that if you went on down to the jail house you could find him, though he might be out on the range checking up with the local cowpokes, he does that sort o' thing on Mondays. If'n you want to make an appointment, leave him a note there or in the court house down the road, they're on opposite sides of the square, you can't miss'em." ----- Blood and death are waiting, like a Raven in the Sky! I was born to die!

The horse seemed to appear out of the desert sands more than actually walk, for the haze around the midday sunshine was fierce enough to distort the grim visage approaching town. The horse was dark brown in color, matching the coloration of the coat draped over its rider. From the edge of the town, the two were but a blur, a seeming mirage far on the horizon. As time pressed on, the two slowly became larger to the eyes of any would-be observer, the two seperating into seperate visages stalking across the long dried plain. Dust kicked up behind the horse, a cloud floating back over the barren land. A gleam could be seen from somewhere on the man's person, the telltale sign of a gun belt clearly designating that this man was more than some random rider on his way into town for a drink. This one meant business.

Not much later, the cloud found its way into the borders of Acacia, several old men sitting on benches outside of the local general store taking note of the tall man on the horse. They knew him almost immediately.. For even here, in the small town of Acacia, the story of the Raven was known. The old men knew little about him other than that it was him towards which they now stared. They knew little of the deeds he actually performed, but word had reached the town that from one of the Farmers from New Mexico who came into town rather consistently. The stories spoke of a terror, a lawman gone the way of the rogue. By all reports, he was a dangerous man who was more or less untouchable. The law hated him, but without him they'd be overrun with lawbreakers.

The old men whispered to each other as he got down off the horse, his scarred eye greeting their gaze with harsh determination and more than a little condescendence. They quickly stopped speaking, waiting until he turned and walked towards the saloon, tying off his horse and walking between the two doors. The reception within was little different, low whispers and long stares hidden behind low hats coming up to meet him. He sat on the far end of the bar.

"What'll it be, stranger?" spoke the bartender, in a tentatively shakey voice, though he cleared his throat in an attempt to prevent that particular problem. Some men were like dogs in that they could smell fear, it was not too much of a stretch that this applied to John Cooper. Cooper spoke not a word, but stared back at the barkeep until the man reached under the bar and brought forth a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass. The Raven nodded, and the bartender walked away.

William stiffened and placed the jar of mollases on the corner of the counter. He paced out of the store, picked up his shotgun and his sack, spat a muddy spot in the dirt of the main street, and walked toward the jail house, passing the saloon, where a new horse was tied up.He began to whistle.

Sherriff? Did he say Rairke was the Sherriff? Marie shook her head in confusion. Something was not adding up. Very wanted criminals did not become sherriff. Temporarily giving up the search for stick candy, she wandered back out into the street, then made for the hotel bar. "Bourbon." The bartender looked at her undecided. "Well?" He got it for her, keeping far away from the stranger who sat there. That got her attention, and she looked. Grim looking man, she decided. Looked a little creepy, what with that scar running through his eye. She shrugged and accepted her drink. Didn't matter to her, as long as he didn't try to start anything with her.

John walked down the the side of street sticking to the wooden sidewalk than ran infront of each building. Just after the last person left the general store he covered his face with his red bandana and walked in. In a flash he pulled out his pistol and had it aimed at the shopkeeper's head. "Where's the safe?"

"The safe!?" The clerk stammered as he saw the, would-be thief. "Well, I don't have a safe." The clerk just stared at him dumbfounded, "Now why would I have a safe? Why would such a small 'general' store have a safe? This town is small, small, I don't know what you wish to accomplish, but there is little money to be found here. And I don't know where you found this 'safe' idea from....this isin't a bank if you'll so kindly go outside and look at the sign." The clerk just crossed his arms and stared back at the would-be thief. "I've met some stupid ones in my time...but a safe!?"The clerk just shook his head. "Alright, this is how it should go down. You walk in, waving your revolver, rifle, what have you, and you see that this is a 'general' store...so, have I lost you yet? Okay, good, now, seeing as this is a 'general' store, you shout, 'Open the cashregister and put all of it in 'this' bag!'. Now, you hope that I'll be compliant and follow orders." Any one could tell the clerk was on the verge of pure laughter. He got up and started towards the back, when John makes a gesture that tells him not to move...he simply looks at the man and says..."Take him away Deputy."

John turns to see a man holding a revolver to his head, he quickly slaps Johns revolver out of his hand. The man had a brown cowboy hat on his back, laced around his neck. The man has brown hair, as well as eyes. Wearing a white shirt with a brown vest over that. With brown pants and chaps, and boots, accompanied by spurs.

The young man smiled, "Well, I'm only asking once, act up and you'll find a bullet in you head. Now, Put your hands up and lay belly down!"

John made a pulling gesture with his hand and the man's gun flew into his faster than you could say go. "Now where were we?" He took a step back cocked the gun and said, "Put the godd**n cash in the bag, from the register before I paint your store red!" He then aimed and shot at the deputy's leg.

When John tries to cock the gun...it doesn't. ( Because this isin't a movie! We don't say threatening words, then cock the gun, then say some more threatening words. He cocked the gun before he put it on your head. Maybe I should of said that...) The deputy takes a step back at the quick reactions of the man. "Put the godd**n cash in the bag, from the register before I paint your store red!" When John shot, the Deputy was half-way behind a rack of Stick Candy. John's shot harmlessly hit the floor. John turned towards the counter as a huge heavy stick of solid oak...met his face. John was out cold. The deputy quickly pounced on the would-be thief, kicking the gun away from his motionless hand. "Good work Adam...you stopped him by yourself!" The deputy told him, accompanied by a pat on the back. "Well, if you didn't distract him...I wouldn't of had time to set that little thing up." With a smile, the storekeep helped the deputy carry John outside. After locking his door, the storekeep helped the deputy carry him all the way to the jail house.

John awoke in a small dingy jail house, "d**n't not again." He huffed and sat up, the jail cell was a small 5' by 8' room with a cot and a chamber pot. The cot has hard and stuffed for of hay, and John guessed but was porbaly infested with lice nad fleas. The chamber pot smelled putrid enough that he didn't need to look to know what was in there. A small barred window let sunlight into his cell. He whistled and no one said anything, he leaned against the bars and looked down the hall, no one was here. But on the wall across from a row of pegs held some keys.

John stretched out his mind and focused on calm thoughts, be calm, be calm. He heard the keys rattle then slide off the peg. Come on, stay focused, when he opened his eyes the keys floated lazily over his hand. He caught them in air and worked on unlocking the jail door. He got it on the second key, he gave a silent cry of joy then stepped into the hall. A drunkerd slept in another cell, John tip toed past and creaked open another door just a bit, he listened no one. John slowly crept into the office, no one was here. "Must be lunch."

John went into the back sheriff's office, no one was in there so he sifted through the drawers. "Bingo." He found his gun and bandolier he slipped them both on. The .357 Magnum was one of his prize possesion's he slipped it into his side holster. He walked back to the front door, he peaked outside, no one was about really. He stepped outside and walked at a stiff pace down the board walk.

John made to the town's bar he looked down the street, Shadow was still tied up, the boy watching him was feeding him a couple of carrots. John grinned and walked into the bar, careful of anyone watching him. He sat down next to some woman with long black hair, "Give what she's having." He muttered putting a couple of silver dollars on the counter.

Marie glanced at the newcomer. She'd seen him in the store, but not since. He looked like he'd just had an unpleasant experience. She shrugged, and turned back to her drink. She was still trying to puzzle things out. She looked at the stranger at the other end of the bar, and wondered about him. Every one was giving him such a wide berth, you'd think he was the devil himself.

John shifted nervously, in his he kept hearing whispers of the patrons, was he going crazy? What was going on? He knew he could do some things no natural but hearing voices in your head wasn't that what crazy folk said. Hegulped down whatever was in the small shot glass and it sent a burn down the back of his throat. ...think he was the devil himself

He swung around on the barstool he swore someone just whispered something, he looked at the Indian woman. "You say something?"